


Aus dieser Harmonie

by diplomaticPathologist



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: AU, First Love, Love, M/M, More tags and characters to come, Rating May Change, Revolution, Titan Shifters, Titans, au in which marco doesn't die???, but not sexy anatomy, descriptions of anatomy, gah how do tags, sorry - Freeform, titan korper, titans are a disease?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-03-29
Updated: 2014-04-21
Packaged: 2018-01-17 09:29:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1382470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diplomaticPathologist/pseuds/diplomaticPathologist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>I wish I could honestly, and in person, tell you why I did it. Why I faked my death, why the events of Shiganshina occurred… Why I left you alone. That, truly, is the one thing I regret with all my heart—leaving you, I’m sure, with so many questions and crushed hope. Perhaps sorrow, if I meant to you what you mean to me.</i><br/>But you’re stronger than that. </p><p> </p><p>(Jeanmarco fic? Why not?? What could go wrong???)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> YOOOOOOO  
> Thank you for reading...  
> I will continue to work on 'Gracious', but this has become first and foremost in my brain so...  
> Uh  
> 

_Jean:_  
 _I wish I could honestly, and in person, tell you why I did it. Why I faked my death, why the events of Shiganshina occurred… Why I left you alone. That, truly, is the one thing I regret with all my heart—leaving you, I’m sure, with so many questions and crushed hope. Perhaps sorrow, if I meant to you what you mean to me._  
 _But you’re stronger than that. I know this. This letter is not for an apology, or an explanation, but to express a mixed sense of sentimentality and encouragement. Maybe I’m just a foolish romantic, but it felt wrong to leave you without a goodbye. I felt that you deserved so much more than a second-hand message of my departure. Please, Jean, I know you’ll want to roll your eyes at this next bit, but, here comes the sentiment._  
 _I will love you until my last breath escapes me (and I do realize this is odd and just a little bit ironic, coming from a man presumed dead). No matter how much I want to forget the times we danced or kissed or held hands so it won't hurt, I will love you. It will hurt, not being with you, but even though I will soldier on and put on a brave face, inside I am weeping for the loss of you. Jean, I’m no good for you, not at this moment in time, and it’s too late to turn back from the path I chose. I chose to make a difference, and come hell or high water I’m going to do just that. Until my name is called at the pearly gates, I will strive on to change this horrid world we live in. We’ve chosen disparate paths, and they may never cross again._  
 _Now, for the encouragement. Jean, for the love of God, never change. Go on being your strong, brave self. Be rude, be abrasive; go piss off that Eren guy you’d always rant about. Forget me, forget what we had. Move on, be strong._  
 _I will hold onto our memories for us. I will safeguard them with my life._  
 _Yours,_  
 _—M. Always._

***

Jean folded up the letter pensively, glancing up to the blonde woman standing in front of him. She'd burst into his apartment suddenly, and without explanation thrust upon him a dilapidated envelope. Her cold, frost-blue eyes bored holes into his head as he finished the letter with one last forlorn look. She was small, but stocky, and had a large aquiline nose set firmly in the center of her face. 

He stood, chair scraping backwards across the wooden floorboards with a plaintive sound. Jean was overwhelmed with an unshakable urge to pace, to pace the floor until the world turned back to the way it was meant to be.

To have his heart feel this way… it was as if a surgeon removed it, stuffed it with straw and shoved it back in, upside down and aching. 

The woman stared at him apathetically, and opened her mouth.

“Destroy it.”

“Excuse me? What the hell are you—“Jean spat, and he subconsciously held the letter closer to his body. The blonde woman tilted her head, nodding to the envelope.

“He told you everything, didn’t he? We can’t afford to have our secrets leaked,” she retorted, crossing her arms. Jean shook his head, tucking the letter into the envelope, and then into his back pocket. 

“He said nothing. I’m not destroying it.” Jean could not lose this, could not lose another part of _him_. 

The woman’s clear eyes burned, but she fell silent. 

“Can… Can I send him something back? Do you see him often?” Jean inquired, ruffling his hair absent-mindedly. The blonde woman frowned now, eyebrows knitting together, cross. 

“I’m not a carrier pigeon. You either come see him for yourself and become one of us, which, believe me, none of us actually want. Or, you forget about him, and this letter, and us,” she said, turning to leave. 

“I can’t just uproot myself and join you all, that’s ridiculous. That’s treason.” 

“Is it wrong to want something better? I never would have staked you for a kiss-up, Kirstein. Is that what you are now? Just another one of the King’s yes-men?” the woman intoned, voice taunting. Jean stirred in his stance, hands balling into tight fists.

“Do you even know me? Where do you get off,” he hissed, “You can’t just barge in here, hand me this letter, and expect me to agree with your ridiculous ideas!”

The woman turned back, her long, parted bangs swinging with the motion. 

“So Marco’s ideas are ridiculous. I see… You’d like for me to tell him that?”

“I thought you weren’t a carrier pigeon.” She snorts derisively at this. 

Jean scowled, a hand reaching back to pat his back pocket, the only thing protecting _his_ words. Those words would haunt Jean, recalling memories of days long since past. 

_…The times we danced or kissed or held hands…_


	2. Chapter 2

***

No moment was as sweet, or as predominant in Jean’s mind as the day he met Marco Bodt.

To this day, Jean can recall every last detail, down to the clothes he was wearing and the smell of bread from the neighbouring bakery. His return home had been uneventful, as his entire life was, for that matter, but as he approached his apartment’s whitewashed door he had reason to pause. Jean had nothing in his hands except for a plastic bag that contained a small, lukewarm dinner. He paused, key poised to plunge into the keyhole when he heard a peculiar sound. It took Jean a few moments to comprehend just what he was hearing, but then it struck him.

Someone was singing in his apartment. The words were unknown to Jean, but they sounded close to his native tongue: German. They sounded cheerful, upbeat, with rollicking tones that vibrated like the strings of a violin. Whoever was singing wasn’t even that terrible at it, Jean had to concede. He stood for a minute, basking in the soft tones drifting from behind the door.

In a fluid motion, Jean had the door open and both feet inside the small apartment, shoes clicking mutedly on the linoleum floor. He was greeted with the sight of a man seated on his kitchen countertop, which adjoined the measly entrance. The man stopped his soft vocals, mouth agape slightly, and he leapt from the countertop, apology on his lips.

"Sorry!" he cried, hand coming up to grip Jean's, key and all.

The man was tall, though only taller than Jean by mere centimeters, and he wore a beige sweater which covered him from neck to wrist. His most outstanding trait was the smattering of freckles that raced across his cheeks as if splattered there with ink. From what Jean could see of his collarbones and hands, there was a dusting of freckles there as well. They mapped out complicated constellations on his tan skin, and one could not look at them and not get that indomitable urge to trace them. The man had short, dark hair and a wide smile with even teeth that gleamed. Yet, he looked weary, like every other person Jean had seen in the past few days. The shadows beneath Jean’s own eyes were reflected in the man before him. Jean could not help himself but stare.

"Y-you, who the hell are you!" he stammered, taken aback. "What the hell?"

The man laughed good-naturedly.

"Oh, jeez, I'm Marco! Marco Bodt. I, uh, I guess Connie didn't give you a heads-up?" The man released Jean's hand, which seemed to grow colder with the lack of contact. Jean dropped his dinner on the counter.

"How does Connie come into this, did he...? Oh, Christ he did say something, didn't he," Jean scratched the back of his head, trying to remember just what Connie had said. Ah, that's right. This guy just needed a place to crash for a bit, before his work called him back to Stohess, all the way inside Wall Sina or something. Jean had agreed, but not after many grumblings and promises of future retribution.

"It was real nice of you to do this, y'know, to put me up for a bit," Marco said, stepping back, “I’m sorry I burst in like this. I have a key! Don’t worry!” It seemed that his smile was eternal. He rummaged in his pockets before procuring a key, identical to the one in Jean’s palm, brandishing it with pride.

"Yeah, no worries. Here, lemme give you a grand tour." Jean waved away the proffered key and led the freckled man into the center of the apartment, hands on his shoulders, taking five steps.

"And, this is it. This has been Trost Tours, thank you for your patronage, please think of us again in the future," he said, clapping his hands together. Marco laughed. It was a pleasant sound.

"Oh, come on, look, there are doors right over there. Here! Let's explore," Marco snagged Jean's sleeve, tugging him forward. Jean felt foolish, but he acquiesced.

Marco 'discovered' a bathroom the size of a broom closet, and a bedroom that took up most of the apartment. Both rooms were undetailed in their design. The walls were coated in a pale, peeling green paint that dated from ages before, when the building was first constructed. Jean wasn't the neatest person, but he kept things in a sort of order. His second uniform (he switched between the one he was wearing and this one every other day) was folded over the baseboard of his bed. A stream of fading, muted sunlight shone through the blinds onto his pillow. It was beginning to darken outside.

"Look, I haven't got much food in here, I usually eat out. You hungry?" Jean asked, turning and moving to push around boxes in a cupboard. "Pretty sure I had bread at one point in time."

Sure enough, bread was found, as was a sort of preserve, and they feasted like kings on a mixed dinner of toast and the now-cold meat Jean had brought home. Seated on his couch, they balanced plates on their knees. Over this impromptu meal Jean took no time to send a barrage of questions at his guest. Marco didn’t give very definitive answers.

“You’ve come from Shiganshina?”

“Oh, yeah. Were you there?” Marco returned, looking down. Jean nodded, pointing with a fork towards the south.

“I’m a member of the Military Police, of course I was there. Been working overtime for the past three days, today was my first off.”

“Wow…” Marco glanced at Jean through his lashes, though his attention seemed to be focused on his meal.

“So, you got any family? They’re not still there, are they?” Jean leaned back after placing his plate on the floor.

“A few siblings, of sorts,” the freckled man smiled, “Not blood, but they’re very dear to me. They’ve left by now, probably. We split up in the chaos.” A few seconds ticked away before Jean spoke again.

“You always sing?” The other man blushed, the red seeping under his freckles.

“Sometimes! I needed something to do.” The two men continued conversing, trading information with quick tongues and raised interests. Outside the window, the night had settled in, wrapping its cool arms around the city in a dark embrace. Through the clouds the rind of moon shone, accompanied by a twinkling melody of thousands upon thousands of stars.

***

“I don’t understand. In this letter—“Jean pats his back pocket, “—he says that he doesn’t think that we’ll see each other again. Obviously you two aren’t in accordance about me. Am I right?”

The woman sighed audibly, the whoosh of exhaled breath reverberating in the empty stairwell.

“Marco may not want to see you, but the others and I agree that we could use you,” she stated, stance shifting. “We need a cure, Jean, and you are the key to it.”

“For what? God, quit the cryptic shit or so help me… Just say exactly what you need.” Jean groaned, running a hand through his short, rough hair. The woman did not speak another word, but she turned, eyes blazing, and began to meticulously unbutton and remove her tan coat. Jean stared, incredulous, as she crossed her arms at her waist, and gripped the base of her hooded sweatshirt.

“Sweet Lord above save me,” he whispered, taking a step backwards.

The woman had tossed down her outerwear, exposing a sort of thing so incredibly bizarre, it made Jean's stomach roil. In the place of skin on her torso, angry red muscles laced up and around her midsection, with naught but stripes of sinew to hold them in place. Her skin only reoccurred at the junctions of her neck and shoulders, though her right bicep was beginning to wear away. It was odd, the way her skin gave way to muscle, like a grotesque shoreline, the pale cream clashing with blood red. She did possess a strange facsimile of breasts. To Jean, she looked like an obscene caricature of an anatomy doll. The woman flexed, rolling her shoulders back. The muscles on her stomach rippled eerily. Not one of the exposed tissues wept blood.

“You’ve got it, the disease, Christ,” sputtered Jean, latching a hand firmly to his doorway, searching for an anchor to pin him to reality. Bile rose in his throat. The woman nodded coolly. “ _Titan Körper_ ,” he hissed. The woman walked up the stairs, causing Jean to shirk away, brown eyes wide. She stood close, her soft breath cascading down his collarbones.

“You wanna know what we need from you? Get us a fucking cure,” she spat, “And y’know what? I’m sick of these reactions from people, like I’m so different from them. This is what we all look like underneath, and I’m just strong enough to show it.”

“If you’re fine with the way you are, why do you want a cure? I've never even heard that there was a cure!” Jean could only say this, as his mind was blank.

“Eventually, my hands and face will go and I’ll be tossed behind the walls just like those other poor fucks and that’s not what’s going to happen to me. I can fight it. I can fight the urges. _I am strong_!” she cried, hands coming up to grip Jean’s collar. A crazed look crossed her eyes... she looked like a trapped animal. “But the others are suffering. Some of Reiner’s face is gone already…” she trailed off, seeming to calm down. Her grip loosened. Her voice became monotonous once more. "And trust us. There's a cure."

“Why me?” Jean asked after a long while.

“Your job and your relationship with Marco.”

Jean looked down at her, and he put a broad hand on her shoulder. “Why do those two things matter?”

She released him, brushed off his hand, and walked back to pick up her coat and sweatshirt. Her back was in the same condition as her torso.

The _Titan Körper_ had struck only decades before, effectively decimating the population of the present-day Walled Country. The disease wreaked a horrendous internal war; modifying a person’s very appearance and their behaviour. People grew monstrous, their features expanding and contorting, gaining terrifying abilities. A side-effect of the diseases spread was an outburst in cannibalism, which became rampant throughout the country. Citizens became violent, infected and uninfected alike. Fear ruled supreme for many years. Eventually, a call was made to retreat into the heart of the country, and all suspected of or confirmed to be infected were driven away in a mass exodus, spurred on by the brutality of the military. Three grand walls were erected, sealing out humanity’s curse.

Few cases had come to light in the modern time, and the military would silence the outcry of the past with nooses and blades. A stigma arose around the infected and their kin, and it was decreed treasonous to consort with those even in the early stages of infection. The _Körperen_ , as the infected were called, were declared to be inhuman.

And here was one, a _Körperen_ , standing before Jean in all of her taboo glory.

“Your job puts you in close proximity to the capital’s center. That’s where our sources say the cure is being stored. And as for Marco… He is our lever,” she said, “In case you won’t comply.” She had her coat on now, hood pulled through the neck. She fastened the tan jacket close to her throat. The woman turned and left, slinking down the stairs, raising her hood as she did so. “Think about it, Jean. We don't need you as of this moment, but soon…” And then she was out of sight.

They'd turn on one of their own. That did not bode well. Another thought struck Jean in that moment.

“Wait! Does Marco have it? The disease?” he hollered after her, not caring who in the apartment heard.

"I don't know. He won't say," came the near inaudible reply.

Jean was left in a bewildered state, standing alone once more in his open doorway. He rubbed at his eyes, exhaled, and retreated into his empty apartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *cautiously throws canon into the wind and laughs*


End file.
